


Karma

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6181786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor doesn’t tolerate other people pulling Fingolfin’s hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karma

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The gardens surrounding his father’s estate are beautiful, as they always are, but Fëanáro never bothers to take the scenic route—his time is better spent in the forge or his study than idly wandering about flowers, as his less-productive brothers are so wont to do. Instead, he takes the quickest path, keeping his head held high and an air of importance about him. Today he has no time for the nattering of servants, and his somewhat unapproachable veneer lends itself well to that. He’s made it nearly to the front porch when something slows his steps. He can smell a familiar, subtle cologne on the wind, and hushed voices beckon from beyond the potted trees framing the walkway. 

Mostly on a whim, Fëanáro allows his course to deviate. Whispers breed secrets, and knowledge is power, especially now that his brothers are grown and his place as Finwë’s heir doesn’t seem quite so assured as it once did. Sure enough, when Fëanáro slips between the trees, he spots the telltale blue-silver robes of Ñolofinwë’s house disappearing behind a pillar. 

Fëanáro follows silently, maneuvering between the cover of foliage and marble columns, until he finds a good view of the scene. Only a few meters from his position, Ñolofinwë stands against the wall, Melkor backing him into it. Melkor’s visage is humble today, less grand than most Valar masquerading as elves, which only fans Fëanáro’s suspicion. Though few others seem wise enough to look for it, Fëanáro’s seen the darkness in Melkor’s eyes.

Melkor shows his true colours now. He’s dressed handsomely, his movements graceful, but his steps are calculated, and he corners Ñolofinwë in the shadows like a cat trapping a mouse. As Melkor takes his final step forward, Ñolofinwë is forced to flatten against the stone. Melkor’s gaze is fixed on his prey, and to Ñolofinwë’s credit, he doesn’t look away. 

He does look uncomfortable. Fëanáro had thought to spy on a clandestine meeting, but it’s clear that this is purely of Melkor’s doing. Melkor’s words are hissed too low for Fëanáro’s ears to catch, but Ñolofinwë, unlike most of their foolish subjects, doesn’t look the least bit swayed by whatever lies Melkor’s conjured now. If anything, Ñolofinwë’s expression grows more irritated with each passing breath. If their positions were reversed, Fëanáro would be shoving past Melkor to go about his business.

Ñolofinwë, of course, is too _polite_ for that. Much of his weakness lies in his diplomacy—the ease with which he bends. He allows himself to stay trapped in Melkor’s web, and Fëanáro has to suppress the urge to snort to himself—Ñolofinwë’s inaction breeds his own troubles. Fëanáro’s just about to turn away and resume his own business when Melkor moves again. 

His words halt and his hand rises. It reaches over Ñolofinwë’s shoulder, Ñolofinwë’s eyes flickering to follow the movement, and Fëanáro feels himself frozen in place. Melkor slips his longer fingers into Ñolofinwë’s dark hair, stroking slickly down it, a move far too personal, made worse when Melkor slides back up it to trace along the side of Ñolofinwë’s face. Ñolofinwë shudders, eyes sliding closed. Fëanáro knows just how sensitive his little brother is to that—he has distinct, shameful memories of being too young to behave and cruelly pulling Ñolofinwë’s hair—an easy way to cull him into submission. Melkor relaxes his grip again at Ñolofinwë’s chest but doesn’t withdraw the offending hand. 

He leans forward, having Ñolofinwë’s full attention, and Ñolofinwë tilts slightly away from him, eyes opening again but lashes staying half lowered. Melkor hisses something new. Ñolofinwë winces. His hands are obstinately still by his sides. Fëanáro can only wonder what filth Melkor is telling him—perhaps more ways to undermine Fëanáro’s own standing. But after a minute passes, he doesn’t think so. Ñolofinwë’s shrinking. It’s very likely he now _believes_ whatever lies Melkor’s contrived. Fëanáro had thought him better than that, but clearly, Fëanáro remains the only one that can see through Melkor’s fair façade.

Pulling back again, Melkor catches Ñolofinwë’s eye. When Ñolofinwë says nothing, does nothing, Melkor’s fist tightens. He jerks Ñolofinwë forward so hard that Ñolofinwë gasps, hands flying to Melkor’s chest to steady himself, but he only pushes back, not free, even though Fëanáro _knows_ he’s stronger than that. Valar or no, Melkor is _crossing a line_. But Ñolofinwë is held fast by the harsh hold on his hair, while Melkor eyes him like a wild beast to be speared and eaten. A part of Fëanáro wonders if _this will be it_ : Melkor will shed his cloak and reveal the true monster beneath. 

But the rest of Fëanáro sees his little brother’s stubborn acceptance of such mistreatment. And as much as Fëanáro would love to see Ñolofinwë bent into submission, he’s still a son of Finwë, and he belongs at no one’s feet but _Fëanáro’s_. 

Fëanáro steps quickly from his hiding place and is at their side in seconds, growling with full authority, “Melkor, what is the meaning of this?”

He expects no acceptable explanation and gets none. Melkor eyes Fëanáro, thin-lipped, while Ñolofinwë looks at him in surprise. Melkor’s fist uncurls but doesn’t retreat fast enough, so Fëanáro takes a hold of Melkor’s wrist and yanks it away. Ñolofinwë has a sharp intake of breath as his hair’s pulled again and says nothing more. 

Cold _fury_ flashes through Melkor’s eyes, but it’s gone in an instant, so fast that only instinct makes Fëanáro sure he saw it at all. Then Melkor dons a sickening smile and purrs, “Why, your dear brother and I were simply having a chat.” Ñolofinwë looks aside—not down, but still away.

Fëanáro says tightly, “And now you are finished.”

To his surprise, Melkor gives in easily, merely smiles wider and dips his head in a mocking half-bow. Then he turns to sweep away, robes rustling over the stone and down into the grass, back through the gardens. Fëanáro watches him leave, half expecting to see him melt into a shadow and worm back to them. 

But Melkor disappears through the gates in the same handsome form he always masquerades in. In his absence, Fëanáro can feel Ñolofinwë’s eyes returning to him. 

Fëanáro has the pathetic urge to ask if Ñolofinwë’s alright and finger-comb the mess Melkor made back into place. It’s strange to see Ñolofinwë’s pristine hair ruffled so, his eyes so guarded and his breath just that little bit more laboured than usual. Fëanáro holds all his urges in. He can’t offer any explanation for his actions other than the obvious: for all his dislike of Ñolofinwë, _he protected his little brother._

Ñolofinwë is hardly little anymore. Yet his voice is oddly quiet when he says, “Thank you.”

Fëanáro nods stiffly. 

Then he leaves as swiftly as he came, unsure if he’s truly relieved when Ñolofinwë’s footsteps don’t follow.


End file.
